


Tight

by fresne



Category: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: Other, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:KC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-19
Updated: 2008-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today she's a motorcycle cop. The tiny slip of her is all in tall boots and mirrored sunglasses. He prefers her with those reflective eyes. Because she's metal and that's all she is and all she'll ever be. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Tight

**Author's Note:**

> The following inspiration for this work and inspiration for my dialogue, where I am not directly quoting, because apt quotes are cool:  
> Not sure I remember, but if I quoted and didn't attribute, let me know and I'll fix it.

She comes in the narrow door. Today she's a motorcycle cop. The tiny slip of her is all in tall boots and mirrored sunglasses. He prefers her with those reflective eyes. Because she's metal and that's all she is and all she'll ever be.

Today he's a fireman. He's covered in soot and smoke, but he found what he was looking for.

He doesn't ask what she was looking for in those clothes. She doesn't ask him. She takes off her sunglasses and her eyes are as incurious as the reflection was.

They stand in his narrow stash of guns, inches apart. Assault rifles at the elbow. Shotguns at the knee. Pistols arranged one, two, three, and twenty. He says, "What are you doing here? I put this place together. You don't belong here." She doesn't belong and she could flip at any moment. Has flipped. Will flip again. He's seen it. He saw it. He wishes that she'd put her sunglasses back on to cover her lying human eyes.

She says, "I needed more tracer rounds." She looks around. "You did a good job. It's very tight." She brushes by him in the tight space. Everything feels soft and real, and none of it's real. None of it's from now.

Standing here in this dark confined is like standing in the future.

Except the future was so dark, you could never wear shades. She slips by him and he breathes in to let her pass. She smells the same as she did in that future-past. She looks the same too. He's gotten older and she's stayed the same. He remembers when she first stumbled into base. Bracelet a little bent. Her eyes had been level and calm. "Fine, take it and go."

He's going to ignore her. This is his space. Not the house that belongs to Sarah. Not the hotel that no one knows about with Jessie. This is his space and she's in it and she shouldn't be, but she is. He's going to ignore her. He starts stripping off his yellow fireman's gear, because he's not a fireman. Never even wanted to be when he was a kid and there was a world.

She tilts her head and touches his arm. "I like your tattoos. I'm thinking of getting one."

"Yeah." He wants to jerk his arm away, but he doesn't. Won't give her the satisfaction, except she's a machine and can't be satisfied. But whatever it is, he doesn't move away. Just looms over this little slip that could rip his arm off and beat him with it if she braced and pulled. He's seen that sort of thing too. He turns his arm to expose the softer inner skin. "How about a barcode?"

She traces the lines on his arm. The ink that he didn't put there. That they marked on him. Her fingers feel warm and firm, and that's all a lie. He's not going to ask her to read it. He doesn't want to know. He says from somewhere, "Can you read it?"

She looks up at him. "Of course."

He wants to ask what it says, but he won't. He does. "What does it say?"

"It's a number." She tilts his arm around. "I don't want a number. I have a name." Her fingers trace higher. Other ink. Other patterns. Every image has a story. Mission out at Lawrence-Livermore. Bunker in Bolsa Chica. He doesn't want her hands on them, but he doesn't pull away. He stands there in the dim narrow corridor of guns and lets her touch the marks that he put on himself. She says, "I'm thinking of getting a wolf or a tiger. What do you think? Am I a wolf? Or am I a tiger?" Her warm small fingers have reached bullet wound scars now. More marks metal made on him.

He glares down at her, because she's not real. Because she's screwing with John's head. And there's no reason to be standing here. He's got Jessie back, who's human. Who no one knows about. Who knows him. And she's not Jessie. But he doesn't pull away. "You're metal. That's all you are."

She stands there in those boots and reaches up. She puts her hand behind his neck and pulls down. Bends him closer. "I don't want a tattoo of metal. Maybe I'll do both a tiger and a wolf." Then she kisses him. Her lips are warm and firm, just like a real girl. She lets go. "Does it hurt to get a tattoo?"

"Yeah." His voice sounds rough like that because of the smoke and the soot that he inhaled earlier. Outside the narrow door is a whole world of people and she's one of the things that killed them. Will kill them. "Won't hurt you though. Metal's good at taking abuse."

She looks at him with those calm level eyes and it's just like he remembers from the future. She was calm then too. Before he knew what she was, he thought she was just calm. He's gotten older and she's stayed the same. Doesn't even remember that past-future meeting. That kiss before his skin was marked by the marks that he chose. World was still gone. She was still one of the things that killed it. But he kisses her anyway. Somehow it's hard to remember if it's a memory or if it's happening right here and now.

Whenever now is. Feels like the dead future here, surrounded by all these racked guns. Smells like gun oil and gunpowder and soot and ash. She tastes the same. She tasted human then too.

It is not a fun kiss. Not a playful play of tongues by long lost lovers in a sun-dappled hotel room. It's a grind in a bunker and she's dressed like a cop and he's half dressed like a fireman. She's exploring his tattoos. She's checking out the one that she wants to buy. Maybe she'll rip one off and slap it on. He imagines that as they stand there. Punishing his hands on her shoulders and he knows she can't really feel it. He knows she can't really get the satisfaction of feeling anything. That her eyes are cool and calm and they take it all in. They take everything and this is a reminder of that. She takes everything from him and gives him nothing but empty back.

He's got his hands on her and if he just slid up, if he just got that knife on the third rack down, he could pry her open and peel her out, but he doesn't and he can't really. She'd kill him before he made it. So he stands there with her. Hands on quiet warm taking metal and remembers the future.  


**Author's Note:**

> If after reading my fiction here, you would like to read more about me and my writing check out my profile.


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